


The Northern Castle

by sattsuma



Category: Original Work
Genre: Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Double Penetration in One Hole, M/M, Sibling Incest, Trauma, Victim Forced To Choose Which Enemy Rapes Them, Whump, Would-Be Rescuer Joins in on Rape Instead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 09:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17978870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sattsuma/pseuds/sattsuma
Summary: A prince on an errand in the far reaches of his kingdom finds that some of his subjects have more complicated feelings towards him than he had anticipated.Please mind the tags and the author's note.





	The Northern Castle

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [noconfest2018](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/noconfest2018) collection. 



> Okay, so! First off, I claimed this prompt like....well over five months, ago, I think? Here I am at last, sorry @ anon who requested it. Hope you're still around to read this, and that it's at least kind of what you were looking for. 
> 
> This is something a little different for me (part of why I had a really hard time getting the ball rolling for a long time) but it was an interesting challenge! I tried to hit all the requested tags and then just did my own thing with the surrounding story, which is why this is also like....stupidly long, in addition to being extremely late. Apologies for having a really vague and half-assed historical-ish setting yet again, just go with it please haha. 
> 
> In case you missed it, warning for **rape** involving **incest** , between half-brothers who were not raised together, fwiw. Please go read something else unless you're down for that. As always, if there are any major warnings you think I've omitted, please let me know and I'll correct it.

 

“Is there any news from the king?” Lord Guiscard asked.

His voice held only a hint of frustration, but Emile understood it well enough. It had been almost a week since Emile had come to stay at the lord’s castle, and this line of conversation had become as familiar as the dreary rain and ice that lashed the castle walls at all hours of the day and night, making Emile’s bones ache and his chest tighten with the chill.

“No,” Emile replied shortly. He took another spoonful of his soup and took his time before speaking again, as if the thin broth required ample time to be savored. “If any messengers had arrived, you would know it just as well as I.”

“I see.” False civility almost thick enough to touch layered each syllable of Guiscard’s words. “Forgive me. I had only thought that perhaps Your Highness might be privy to more information than I.” 

Emile could have sighed in frustration, had such unseemly behaviors not been drummed out of him since childhood. Though Emile was the crown prince, he knew little of the latest developments of his father’s campaign in the war-torn lands in the south of the kingdom. Instead he had been sent north, to the increasingly begrudging hospitality of Lord Guiscard. 

Emile had known little of Guiscard before coming to his castle. The lord had not done anything to distinguish himself in any particular way over the years, and his lands were so remote that he was rarely seen at the royal court. What Emile had seen during the course of his visit so far had not left him particularly impressed.

“I was surprised that you did not join His Majesty on the field, Your Highness,” remarked Guiscard. His tone of voice was still light enough, but the look he gave Emile as he spoke indicated clearly just what the lord thought of the arrangement. “You are…twenty years old now, aren’t you?” 

“Twenty-one,” Emile corrected reluctantly.

Lord Guiscard took a swig of ale. His eyes seemed to glitter in the light cast by the hall’s great fireplace. “And perfectly capable of leading your own men into battle, I’m sure.”

This was something that Emile was familiar with, from long before he had ever arrived at Guiscard’s home: The whispers that he was weak of body and soft of heart, lacking as a prince and entirely unsuitable as the heir to the throne.

He allowed himself to grind his teeth, for just a moment. He _understood_ that his absence from the battlefield would be unimpressive to an older, more experienced man such as Guiscard, and he understood that being made to host the crown prince with little explanation must surely be vexing for the lord, but if Guiscard would only have a _little_ more patience –

A figure stepped into the hall, bowing first to Emile as propriety demanded, before turning to address Guiscard. In firelight, Emile noticed first the man’s uniform – the typical dark red tunic that all the men-at-arms about the castle wore – and then his thick mane of golden hair, which almost seemed to glow where the flames lit it from behind. Shaken rudely out of his irritated thoughts, Emile hurriedly turned his attention once more to his meager meal – wartime food shortages had hit Guiscard’s land just as they had everywhere else - before anyone could catch him gawping like a starry-eyed child.

There was, in fact, at least _one_ point of distinction regarding Lord Guiscard. Or more precisely, regarding one of Lord Guiscard’s men. 

“My lord,” said Roger, the young captain of Guiscard’s guards.   “I came to see whether His Highness –“ blue eyes flickered in Emile’s direction “-Is ready to return to his chambers.”

Emile had been fourteen the first time he had seen Roger, on a rare occasion where a handful of northern lords had come to the palace to petition Emile’s father regarding some concern. Roger, handsome and clearly well-respected by the rest of the northern men even though he was still younger than most of them, had stood out naturally, but it had not taken long for Emile to notice the way that the palace’s servants looked at Roger, the whispered comments only half-hidden.

Before long, he had learned the truth of the matter, from one particularly bold servant. _Can you not see, Your Highness? His Majesty has sown his seed far and wide, truly._ Emile, who had known of his father’s proclivities and the rumors of bastard heirs scattered throughout the realm well enough even back then, had been mortified, and had felt like a child for not realizing the obvious earlier. 

He had not had the courage to approach Roger after that – not to mention the fact that as the young crown prince, Emile would hardly have been able to speak with Roger with any sort of privacy whatsoever – but he had kept his ears and eyes open, and wheedled a few more details from the servants here and there. The king had sired a son with the unmarried daughter of a certain noble family long ago, before Emile himself had been born. The baby had been sent to the home of one Lord Guiscard, to be raised well and trained as a member of the castle guard when he reached the appropriate age. It would be a fortunate enough fate, while leaving very little chance for the ill-conceived child to bring trouble or embarrassment upon the ones who had created him. And indeed, during the time when Emile had first laid eyes on Roger at the palace, there had been nothing in Roger’s behavior that even hinted that he might be anything more than yet another well-trained man-at-arms.

But now, it was Emile who had ridden north, far away from the watchful eyes and gossiping tongues of the palace. And Emile was a man now, no longer a shy young boy. And so, no matter how dreary the northern weather or how tiresome Lord Guiscard, there would be at least one benefit to the business that had bought Emile here: He would be able, at last, to get to know his half-brother.

“His Highness is finished here,” Guiscard was saying to Roger. “You can see him back to his chamber.”

Emile’s gaze dropped to his plate, still more than half-full. He had just been dismissed by his host, and none too politely. Emile could have rightfully reminded Lord Guiscard which of them was the prince, and which was the unremarkable nobleman graced with his prince’s presence at his crumbling, drafty castle. If Emile’s father could see the scene, he would certainly insist that Emile do just that.

But tonight, with no king or royal advisors around to shake their heads at him, Emile felt little pleasure at the prospect of any more time spent with Guiscard. He got to his feet. “Indeed.” He faced Guiscard, regarding him with what he knew from years of experience to be the perfect amount of politeness and detachment. “Good night, Lord Guiscard.”

The lord did not bid him farewell in return. Emile turned from him anyway, eager to be among more interesting company. 

 

The stone floors of Guiscard’s castle seemed to always be somehow unpleasantly damp, and though Emile had almost grown accustomed to it, keeping up with Roger without slipping was no easy task. Roger walked with long, impatient strides, the evidence of many years spent honing his strength and carrying out orders promptly and diligently.

He did not speak to Emile or even turn back to look at him, even after they had left Lord Guiscard well behind them. Emile chewed at the inside of his cheek as he did his best to keep up, deep in uneasy, hesitating thoughts. Despite all his anticipation, the truth was that he had still not yet attempted to have any sort of real conversation with Roger.

It was not that he had not had the opportunity. On the contrary, as one of Guiscard’s finest guardsmen, Roger had been given the honor and responsibility of guarding the crown prince during his visit. Emile could think of very little that he might need protecting from here, so far from the war at the southern border, but Roger had been steadfast in his duties and he and Emile had found themselves alone on plenty of occasions.

It was exactly the kind of opportunity Emile had hoped for, and yet he had not been able to bring himself to speak to his half-brother in any way beyond what brief interactions a prince and his guard might normally share. Emile was _not_ the awkward boy that he had been the last time fate had brought them together, and yet… Roger had an air about him that did not invite idle conversation, and he had not looked upon Emile with anything but the bland, professional respect that would be expected from one in his role. Emile was certain that Roger was aware of the circumstances of his own birth, of the blood that they shared – the matter seemed to be an entirely open secret – and yet the other man had so far done a remarkable job of putting aside this knowledge in the face of his duties.

Could Roger resent Emile, or their father? Emile did not think so, though the question had crossed his mind once or twice over the past few days. Roger’s treatment of him so far had not been hostile, only distant. And Roger’s life seemed to have turned out well enough. It was not the life he would have had if the king had acknowledged him as his true firstborn son, but Emile did not think that there was anything wrong with that, necessarily. 

They were drawing near to the room that had been given to Emile for the duration of his stay. They had passed no one else along the way – the castle seemed to have few servants, and the ones Emile had seen had all been timid and gloomy. Emile had wondered on occasion whether this was the normal state of things, or whether some of Guiscard’s servants had run off in search of more food, or in fear of being forced onto the battlefield, as he knew had happened at the estates of many other noblemen.

In any case, it meant that Emile and Roger had a morose sort of privacy now. Emile gathered his nerves. _You cannot afford to be weak in body_ and _spirit,_ his father had told him often enough.

“Roger?” he asked.

Ahead of him Roger stopped and turned slowly. “Your Highness?” he replied. His tone was as perfectly neutral as the look on his face.

Emile did his best to smile in what he hoped was a casual manner, despite the foolish self-consciousness that still played at his nerves. “Roger,” he said again. The name felt unwieldy on his tongue, not yet familiar. _Brother_. “I…I have been wanting to speak with you. For a long time.”

“Yes, highness?” 

“It is…” The unrelenting blank look Roger was giving him was not making this easier. “It is a personal matter. I think you may know what I mean.”

Roger did not reply, but something shifted, just slightly, in his gaze, and Emile knew that he understood Emile’s meaning.

“I thought that, perhaps…perhaps we might get to know each other more while I am here.”

Roger bowed his head slightly. “As you wish, Your Highness.” 

“That is not what I meant!” Emile burst out, giving no thought to his dignity. “I mean…not just a prince and his subject, as…” _As brothers_ , he thought, but he could not quite say it aloud, even now. 

Roger was slow to respond, yet again. Emile had born his share of uncomfortable silences and disapproving looks at court, but here in the dark corridor of an unfamiliar castle far from home, he felt Roger’s unreadable stare like a weight upon his shoulders.

“Do you like it here?” he asked, desperate to break the silence, and immediately felt like an idiot.

But it earned him a response, finally. “It is my home,” Roger said, and Emile noted with a little thrill of victory that Roger had not called him “Your Highness” this time. “Perhaps it’s not what you’re used to.”

“Oh, no!” Emile agreed, perhaps a bit too eagerly. “No, but…” It was a bit easier to smile at Roger now. “But I am…I am growing accustomed to it. It is not so bad.” 

Roger nodded slightly, enigmatically. His eyes were blue, the same color as Emile’s father’s – _Roger’s father, too_ – but in the dim light they appeared black.

In any case, Emile thought that this first attempt at conversation could be counted as successful. “It is late,” he said. “I will not keep us standing here, but… I hope we can talk more, later?” It came out as a question, despite his best attempt at confidence. 

Roger nodded again. “Yes,” he said. “Later.”

 

It was not much later at all, in fact. Emile was about to prepare himself for bed – it still felt strange, to be without his servants, but the business that had brought him north had not allowed for such things – when Roger appeared at his door.

“Lord Guiscard requests your presence, Your Highness.”

“Now?” Emile asked, feeling slightly disappointed – he had thought, for just a second, that Roger might have been coming just to talk to him – and more than a little annoyed. What did Guiscard want now? Emile thought back on the lord’s unpleasant demeanor at dinner, and groaned inwardly at the prospect of having to repeat the experience so soon.

“Yes, Your Highness.” Roger was once again simply a guardsman relaying a message between two men of higher status. 

Emile would have been within his rights to refuse. He was a prince, after all, even if he was also a guest in Guiscard’s home presently. But wasn’t smoothing things over with an irritated lord exactly the kind of thing that a good prince should do?

“Very well,” he said. 

 

Roger led the way through the dark, silent castle once again. It was almost the reverse of the trip they had taken earlier in the evening, though as they walked farther they did not seem to be going to back to the great hall, or to any other part of the castle that Emile was familiar with. They passed no one save a few servants, all of whom backed out of the way respectfully without looking at or speaking to either Emile or Roger.

Before Emile could ask where they were going, Roger spoke.

“Do you like living in the palace?” he asked, without stopping or looking back at Emile. 

Emile blinked, casting his thoughts back to their last conversation. “The palace? Yes, I do.” The truth was a bit more complicated than that, of course – though the royal palace was beautiful, and Emile’s life there was comfortable enough, it also carried responsibilities and challenges unlike any that most people would ever face – but now did not seem to be the right moment to go into such details.

“And the king,” Roger continued. “He must be proud of you.” 

“Oh…” There was another complicated question. As Emile searched for an answer, he found himself studying Roger’s broad back, his thick golden hair. He was struck, once again, by just how closely Roger resembled the king. It was a cruel trick of fate, especially when Emile had taken entirely after his mother, from her mouse-brown hair to her congested lungs and weak constitution.

It occurred to him in a brief, unpleasant flash of awareness that if their father had kept informed of what kind of man Roger had become, he might well prefer him to Emile. 

But this was not the moment to dwell on such self-pitying thoughts, either. “I hope he is,” Emile said, finding suitable words at last. “I have tried very hard to serve the kingdom well.”

“And it will all be yours, one day.”

“Yes..?” It had not exactly been a question, and Emile was not sure how to respond. They were climbing a set of stairs now, which were just as cold and damp as the rest of the castle. Emile found himself wishing that he had dressed more warmly before they set out – he had not expected to leave his room again this evening, and wore only a light shirt and trousers. 

At last, Roger stopped in front of a sturdy-looking door. He knocked twice, briskly, and then pulled it open. 

Emile gave him a questioning look, but Roger only stared down at him with the now-familiar blank look on his face. 

“My lord is expecting you,” he said.

A few more seconds passed, and it became clear that no further explanation would be offered. “Very well,” said Emile at last, only half-hiding his annoyance. He stepped past Roger, through the doorway.

It was immediately clear that he had been brought to Guiscard’s private chambers. The space was just as dreary as the rest of the castle, but the walls were hung with heavy tapestries, and the bed that Emile could see in one far corner was piled with an array of blankets and furs. At a table not far from the bed stood Guiscard, his back to Emile.

“Lord Guiscard,” Emile prompted. “You wished to speak with me?”

Behind him, he heard the sound of the door being pulled carefully back into place. Roger had not joined them. 

When Guiscard turned, Emile saw that he too was dressed more casually than he had been at dinner. The front of the lord’s shirt had come unlaced, revealing a chest still formidably broad and muscular even though Guiscard was at least in his forties. There was a flask on the table behind him, and the look on his face seemed much more openly belligerent than any Emile had seen on him before.

_Well, this shall be interesting_ , Emile thought. “Can this wait until tomorrow?” he inquired hopefully. “It is late, and you are surely tired-“

Guiscard brought one fist down upon the table, so that the flask – and Emile, despite himself – jumped slightly. “It will _not_ wait,” he growled, with a vehemence that was equally startling. “I will not dance to your whims tonight, _Your Highness._ ” 

“I…” Emile had not expected that this conversation would be enjoyable, but he had not been prepared for this. “Is something troubling you?” he asked. Only the echo of his father’s stern voice inside his head had stopped him from saying something even more conciliatory.

“Six days you’ve been under my roof.” Guiscard might have been drinking, but his voice was surprisingly steady, even as each word dripped with resentment. “With hardly any explanation. Am I to play host to you until the fighting in the south is done and the king deems it safe for you to return? Is that it?” 

There it was again, the accusation that Emile was weak, unfit for his role. And yet Emile had instructions from the king himself – he could _not_ reveal the full reason for his presence at Guiscard’s castle, not yet. Especially not now, with the lord in his current, unreasonable state.

“You will do nothing to earn the food you eat, and my servants and guards will waste their time tending to you.”

“That is not – “ This was fast approaching treason, but the sheer depths of Guiscard’s resentment at Emile’s presence left Emile so disarmed that he was thoroughly at a loss to respond in the way that his status demanded. He found himself wishing heartily that Roger had stayed with them; perhaps the presence of one of his trusted men would have reminded Guiscard to keep his dignity, even a little. “It – it is not my intention to trouble you or your people, I swear it. I know that you have struggled…”

“The king does not acknowledge us when we ask him for aid, nor give any recognition of our loyalty all these years,” Guiscard carried on, as if Emile had not said a word. “Yet he is happy enough to send his sons here when he becomes ashamed of them.” His lip curled as he regarded Emile. “And this latest one is as soft and useless as a newborn calf.” 

Emile’s face burned, but sheer astonishment kept his tongue frozen. _Has he gone mad?_

Before he could muster any words, the other man’s hands moved. Emile watched, flooded with yet another wave of stupefaction, as Guiscard palmed at his own crotch with one broad hand, as shameless as a man stumbling into the lowest of brothels in the late hours of the night. “I have decided. You will do me _some_ good, boy,” Guiscard declared. His voice was still alarmingly steady, though rough with hatred. “Starting tonight.” 

Emile came to his senses at last, turning and hurrying for the door at a pace only barely shy of a run. _This_ was what Guiscard had summoned him for? The lord’s mind was horrendously addled indeed, and Emile had no idea what might be done about it, but the most pressing matter now was that he get away from the man, immediately -

The door did not open. Tugging at it further, pushing down on the growing wave of panic threatening to rise within him, Emile realized that it had been locked. He pounded his fist against it once, loudly, but could hear nothing in response.

When he turned back around, he found that Guiscard had moved across the room, towards him. With only a few more steps they would be within arm’s reach of each other.

“Scream like a maid in fear for her virtue if you like,” Guiscard told him. “It will do you little good.” 

“You – you are not yourself.” Perhaps the lord was not entirely too far gone for reason, perhaps Emile could break through to him… “You don’t know what you’re saying. I am your _prince_.”

Guiscard let out a bark of joyless laughter. “I am exactly myself, _highness_. I am tired of being ground underneath the king’s boot, and tonight I will begin to do something about it.” He took another stride closer, raising his hand – the one not still pawing lazily at himself – as If to reach for Emile. “Undress, if you can manage to do that much for yourself.”

The door was mercilessly solid and unyielding at Emile’s back. “If you lay a hand on me, it will be the end of you.”

“Is that so?” One corner of Guiscard’s mouth slowly drew up in a mocking grin. “You are very far from the palace now, Your Highness.”

His hand was still moving closer. Emile caught it by the wrist, digging his fingers in with all his strength even though the muscles beneath his grip felt as solid as a block of wood. “I will not-!”

Emile was _not_ soft as Guiscard had accused him, but the lord was quick and powerful even at his age. His knee slammed into Emile’s stomach before Emile could realize what he meant to do. Emile staggered, knees buckling, his hold on Guiscard’s wrist abandoned.

A moment later, a second burst of pain raced through his scalp. Emile’s long hair was pulled back in its typical style – perhaps a little less carefully, since there were no servants here to see to such things for him – and Guiscard had grabbed at it mercilessly, twisting his wrist as if he pulled at the reigns of an unruly horse. As Emile cried out, Guiscard brought his hand down, forcing Emile to his knees.

“There,” he heard Guiscard huff above him. His hand released Emile’s hair, the better to work at undoing his own clothing. “Don’t move, you prissy little-“ 

Guiscard was leaning forwards above Emile, still pinning him in against the door. Emile grabbed at his shirt with both hands and yanked with all his strength. Guiscard stumbled forward, and his head hit the door with a hollow, satisfying _thud_.

Emile tried to scramble out from beneath the lord as quickly as possible, but Guiscard caught at one of his legs, bellowing like a speared boar, and then they were brawling on the floor. Here, again, Guiscard quickly found the upper hand. The situation was quickly growing desperate – Emile pinned against the floor, with one of Guiscard’s hands scrabbling at his trousers – when the door opened. 

Emile froze, and saw Guiscard doing the same above him. Standing in the doorway was Roger.

“My lord,” Roger said. “Your Highness.” He spoke almost hesitantly, and his posture was tense – it would not have been much of a difference coming from another man, but Emile had never seen Roger look so caught off-guard until now. Emile could only imagine what a spectacle he and Guiscard made on the floor. “I heard a struggle…”

Yet again, Guiscard was the first to seize his opportunity. “I am only teaching _His Highness_ his place here,” he announced, the strength of his words undercut only a little by how his chest heaved with exertion from his struggle with Emile.

“Ro-!” Emile started to shout, before Guiscard’s hand moved from his waist to clamp down over his mouth. He tried to bite at it, just as he tried to drive his knee into Guiscard’s belly, but he could not manage either to any effective degree. This was far too much to take – Emile’s heart was pounding in his chest as if it might burst –

_Calm yourself, boy!_ He heard his father’s voice echo crossly inside his head. 

Right. He must not panic. All was not lost yet – Guiscard had not yet overpowered him fully, and help was at hand now... 

When he managed to turn his attention back to Roger, he saw that the guard had not moved from the doorway. His blue eyes were wide, almost dazed.

It occurred to Emile for the first time that Roger’s loyalties were now divided, between the lord whose household he had been a part of since birth and the charge he had only recently been ordered to protect.

But there could be no comparing the two of them, surely. Emile was his _prince_ , the next in line for the kingdom’s throne. To say nothing of the blood ties that bound them, however tenuous that connection was.

“Shut the door.” Guiscard’s voice turned smooth, almost inviting. “Come in, if you like. Maybe you’ll enjoy this.” 

Nonsense, all of it, any second now Roger would realize fully the extent of Guiscard’s madness and come to Emile’s aid –

The door moved back into place. “My lord,” Emile heard Roger murmur. 

Guiscard’s mouth spread into an ugly grin. “Very good.”

The lord was letting go, getting to his feet, but Emile could hardly pay attention to him, much less react. All he could look at or think of was Roger standing only a little ways away, his face set as if in stone, but saying nothing, _doing_ nothing. 

“Roger,” he started to say. He had a moment in which to think, confusedly, _my voice sounds so quiet_ , but before he could try again his hair was pulled sharply once more. Guiscard had undone his trousers fully, and now he brandished his stiff cock only inches from Emile’s face.

“No,” Emile insisted, shaking his head the best that he could, only barely noticing now how his voice was still coming out far too weakly. Guiscard only yanked him closer, until his cock slid disgustingly against Emile’s cheek. Emile clamped his mouth shut and shut his eyes as well. _This cannot be, this is surely some kind of dream._

Fingers pinched hard at his nose.

It was not so much, perhaps – not least after the struggle that had taken place only minutes earlier – but Emile had a childhood of wheezing, choking fits behind him, and the instant he felt his nose blocked and his breath begin to catch in his lungs something elemental awoke within him, something that cared nothing of the disgrace that lay at hand and thought only _I must breathe_. His mouth dropped open instantly, gulping in air, and through the sound his own hasty breaths he heard Guiscard chuckle.

The grip on his nose was released, only so that the head of Guiscard’s cock could be shoved against his lips. “No teeth, boy,” the lord growled, punctuating his words with another eye-watering tug at Emile’s hair. “Or I’ll knock them out of your head.”

He could have said anything. All that mattered was the air flowing into Emile’s lungs once more, way that his chest heaved and his hands shook in relief. And so when Guiscard began to drive his cock into his mouth in earnest, all that Emile, the first and only recognized son of the king and the heir to all the land could think was, _I must keep breathing, no matter what._

It was the taste that brought home the nature of what he was doing first, salty and musky like sweat and other things that Emile could not bear to contemplate. His hair was still held fast, and Guiscard pulled at it as he thrust into Emile’s mouth, each movement a little deeper and a little heavier against Emile’s tongue. Emile shifted uncomfortably on his knees, but he did not dare try to fight free, or even bite as Guiscard had suggested. His earlier moment of panic, and the voice inside his mind that urged survival above all else had not totally receded.

“ _This_ is better,” Emile could not see Guiscard’s face like this, but the lord’s self-satisfaction was disgustingly apparent. “I should keep him like this, have him waiting by my chair on his knees every night. That would make it worth it to have him here, what do you say?”

If there was a reply, Emile could not hear it, but Guiscard let out a rumble of laughter all the same, and pushed Emile’s head a little further forward.

Roger. Roger was still here, seeing all this, why did he do nothing? Was he so intimidated by his lord that he would even let Emile be violated in such a way before him? 

“You know, don’t you?” Guiscard said, as if he had heard Emile’s thoughts. “He hates you too.” 

Emile tried to shake his head. His jaw had begun to ache, and his eyes watered. 

“You think he doesn’t think about what he could have had? What you got instead? You’re more stupid than I thought, _highness_.” 

No, no, Guiscard was lying, Roger could not possibly hate Emile. Emile had done nothing to him, nothing but try to earn his friendship these last few days…

Guiscard moved his hips more sharply suddenly, grunting, and all at once his length was thrust deeper into Emile’s unwilling mouth then ever before, pushing to the very back of his throat.

Emile’s earlier panic bloomed once again, as quickly as embers blown back into a raging fire. He coughed and gagged but could get no relief, no more than he could pull away from the iron grip keeping his head pulled tight against Guiscard’s belly. His chest heaved, but he could get no air, nothing but the foul smell and taste of the organ pressed against his tongue, his head began to feel light and he knew that soon he would faint, he would die –

He heard another voice, as distant and distorted as if heard from deep underwater.

A second later he felt himself shoved abruptly, falling until he hit the floor awkwardly on his side. He twisted himself half onto his hands and knees, retching as he had not done since he was a child in the deepest throes of his illness.

“-Can’t even do that right!” he heard Guiscard spit at him. Emile was shaking, and his face was wet with tears and drool, but he could feel little but weak relief.

“You should be careful, my lord,” Roger said. He had stepped closer at some point and now he spoke to Guiscard quietly, almost confidentially. “He won’t last.”

Guiscard grumbled something unintelligible. Emile had stopped coughing, and his breathing was growing steadily more even, but his head still swam, so much that it was a struggle to stay alert to what was going on around him, let alone think of what he might do now.

He knew with blood-chilling certainty that this would not be the end of it, that Guiscard would not stop until he had gotten his sick satisfaction. There was scant hope of fighting back and overpowering the lord – that much had been made pathetically apparent already – and surely no one who might stumble upon them and intervene. There was only one hope left to Emile now.

“Roger.” The name was falling from his lips almost before he was aware of it. After the torment his throat had just undergone, his voice sounded weaker than ever even to his own ears.

He was aware that both Guiscard and Roger had turned their attention towards him once more. He forced himself to raise his head, to meet Roger’s eyes with his own. “Roger,” he repeated. _Please. Help me._

Guiscard let out a roar of laughter. He nudged Roger with his elbow, more like a drunkard eager to share a joke than a lord addressing one of his men. “Your little brother calls for you, Roger,” he sneered.

Roger had been staring down at Emile blankly, but at the lord’s words his eyes narrowed and his face grew hard. “No brother of mine,” he said, and his voice was as cold and hard as the stone floor beneath Emile’s knees.

Emile blinked at him, numbly. The words seemed to come from far away, not yet able to be entirely understood.

“Ignoring him all these years, until you realize you need his help?” Guiscard affected a tone of well-bred dismay, not at all managing to hide his amusement. “You truly are your father’s son, Your Highness.” The mockery in his voice disappeared with his next words. “If you’re too good to take me in your mouth, there are other ways. Get up.” Guiscard waited only a second before seeming to realize that waiting for Emile to rise on his own would get him nowhere. He turned to Roger. “Move him to my bed. I won’t fuck him on the floor.”

Roger had stayed as still as a statue when Guiscard had violated Emile before his eyes, even when Emile had begged for his help, but now he did as he had been bidden readily enough. Before Emile could even try to protest, he was hauled up and thrown unceremoniously over Roger’s shoulder, and then, after only a few long strides, deposited just as roughly on the bed. The blankets and furs that Emile had noted when he first entered the room cushioned his fall, but his spinning head and churning stomach protested this treatment quite strongly.

He managed to raise himself up onto his elbows, but stopped there when he saw that Roger still stood by the bed, glaring down at him. The look on his face was no longer ambiguous at all, and promised unpleasant consequences if Emile dared to move away from where he had been placed. From the other side of the room, Guiscard was regarding them with a grin on his face, and Emile understood just as clearly that watching Emile be so helplessly overpowered by Roger had pleased the lord.

“Take his clothes off,” Guiscard directed, not even bothering to address Emile this time. “Cut them off if you need to, and His Highness can walk out of here naked when I am done with him.” This last part was punctuated with a nasty smirk at Emile. 

Roger balked, looking down at Emile as if he was something unpleasant to touch. “Do I have to-?”

“That was an order,” Guiscard snapped, all signs of good humor gone once more.

Roger’s back was to his lord, and so only Emile could see the scowl that crossed Roger’s face – for one fleeting second, he found himself wondering for the first time exactly how Roger’s years at Guiscard’s castle had gone – before Roger did as he was told. His hands were uncaring and efficient as he yanked at Emile’s clothing, and he did not acknowledge Emile at all except to let out a growl of frustration when Emile’s clothes became tangled with his limbs. Emile, who did not at all think that Guiscard would not carry through with his threat, did his best to be helpful.

Before long, Emile’s clothing lay on the floor around the bed – none of it destroyed, at least – and Roger backed away from him once more. Emile moved his hands between his legs, trying to cover himself. His hair had come untied at some point, and now it hung about his face as if to shield him. His body would not stop shaking, and he did not know whether it was from the cold or the knowledge of what was to come.

Guiscard had come to stand beside the bed while Roger had been at work stripping Emile. He had not done up his trousers since his first assault on Emile, and his cock was still insistently hard, and wet from Emile’s mouth.

When he began to reach for Emile, Emile jerked away, not able to stop the sharp, fearful noise that slipped from his mouth.

“Hold him.” Guiscard had grown quite comfortable enlisting Roger by now. “He wriggles like a damned rat. I’m tired of it.”

“My lord,” Roger began, grudgingly.

Hope flashed in front of Emile’s eyes once more, like a glimmer of light from of a trash heap that might hold a jewel. He found his voice once more, at last. “Roger, please! Don't – don’t let him…” 

Both of the other men regarded him, Guiscard with disdain, Roger as if Emile’s words were in a foreign tongue that he did not quite understand. “Still haven’t given that up?” Guiscard sneered. “He’s not on your side, you little fool.” Suddenly, a strange, cruel light came into his eyes, as if a new idea had occurred to him. “Or are you calling out for him to hold you instead?”

His words hit Emile like a bucket of ice water. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Roger’s shoulders stiffen.

“No, no,” Guiscard continued, even as Emile began to shake his head hurriedly. The lord had sensed a fine new game to play. “I can hardly deny my _prince_ what he wishes. Who would you rather fuck you, Your Highness? Me? Or Roger?”

Emile’s throat had closed up again, too stunned by the depths of Guiscard’s depravity for words. Next to Guiscard, Roger’s eyes were wide as well.

“Choose, highness,” Guiscard urged with mock sincerity. “He is younger than I, and more handsome. I will understand if you would prefer him.” When seconds passed and Emile did not respond, Guiscard grew bored quickly. He moved closer, laying one hand heavily on Emile’s thigh. “All right, you – “

“Roger!” The name flew from Emile’s lips desperately, unthinkingly.

Everything seemed to freeze, until Emile almost thought that he could hear his heart hammering painfully at his chest. _What are you doing?_ a part of him demanded, horrified, and yet another part of him knew with grim certainty that this made sense, that this was the best way. Guiscard had taken pleasure in Emile’s torment from the beginning, and there was no way of knowing to what depths he would sink. Even being made to take the lord’s cock inside his mouth had been too much for Emile – he was sure that he would not be able to endure whatever came next. Hadn’t Roger mistreated Emile only as much as Guiscard had demanded, hadn’t he cautioned the lord when Emile had been almost overcome earlier? If it was to be a choice, there was one clear answer. 

For a moment, Guiscard only stared at Emile. It was just occurring to Emile that surely the lord had spoken only in jest, that Emile had only managed to humiliate himself and now Guiscard would proceed to hurt him as he pleased, but then, once again, a smile began to spread across Guiscard’s face. “What was that, Your Highness?” 

“I…I want Roger.” If it would make this quicker, if it would spare him even a little bit more suffering, Emile would not hesitate to play the role that Guiscard wished to see. “Please.”

Guiscard’s smile widened at “please”, just as Emile had expected, but the lord could not be satisfied without getting in one more jab. “Of course,” he said, almost warmly. “But you should be addressing Roger, not me.”

Emile turned hurriedly in Roger’s direction, his eyes cast down at the bed. “I want-“

“Look at him.”

This was too much after all, Emile would not be able to go on like this if Guiscard insisted on drawing it out so. He would faint, he would go mad…

_You are the prince_ , the grimly practical voice in his mind whispered sternly. _You must get through this, whatever it takes._

Raising his head seemed to take every bit of strength in his body. When he finally managed it, he saw Roger staring down at him as if stunned. Roger’s blue eyes were wide, and the look on his face seemed to hold disbelief, revulsion, and something else that Emile could not name. 

“I choose Roger,” Emile said. It was not so hard to get the words out now, no more difficult than reciting formalities at court. One said them simply for the purpose of saying them, without thinking of the meaning.

He feared for a second that it would continue like this, that Guiscard would insist that Emile beg for his own debasement in more and more humiliating ways, but here, at least, was one small mercy. “Well?” Guiscard asked, turning his attention to Roger.

Roger stared at Emile wordlessly for one more long moment. He looked as if he did not believe what he was about to do, and Emile felt a strange, unexpected wave of understanding for him.

At last, his face grew stony once more. “Fine,” Roger said shortly, without taking his eyes from Emile. 

His words – the reality of it all – sent a shock through Emile, as if he had been stuck by a bolt of lightening. He did his best to hold firm, squeezing his hands into clammy fists against the bed coverings. The way ahead was clear now. He would endure it bravely, as a prince should.

Roger began to undress without having to be ordered, with the same single-mindedness he had brought to the rest of his duties so far. Before long he stood as naked as Emile. His limbs were long and muscle-bound, as finely sculpted as his face. It was both a surprise and somehow no surprise at all when Emile saw that Roger’s cock was already more than a little hard.

_When did that happen? When he was ordered to strip me? When he watched his lord nearly smother me with his manhood?_ Emile willed himself not to think about it.

Roger was muttering something to Guiscard. If he felt any shame about being naked before his lord and his prince – about what he was about to do – he showed little sign of it.

“What?” Guiscard was still in perverse good spirits, but Emile sensed that his mood might change again quickly if he grew bored or displeased.

“Oil,” Roger said plainly. “I can’t take him dry.” Despite it all, Emile felt a rush of pathetic appreciation.

“You can if I say so,” Guiscard countered. All the same, he turned from the bed and after a moment of fumbling about the room, produced a small container. “Brotherly affection?” he asked dryly as he placed it in Roger’s hand.

Roger’s face darkened. “He is no brother of mine,” he said, for the second time. He gave his length a few heavy strokes, coating himself with the substance Guiscard had provided, and then climbed onto the bed. As if to argue against his lord’s words, he shoved Emile onto his back rudely, without looking at his face, and pushed his legs apart. Fingers prodded at Emile’s most intimate places, calloused and slick. Emile squeezed his eyes shut.

“No,” he heard Guiscard say, after a while. He opened his eyes, in time to catch a look that clearly said _what_ now _?_ pass over Roger’s face. Emile felt, again, an odd sort of empathy.

“What?” Roger asked. He was poised over Emile with one hand pushing Emile’s legs painfully wide open, one hand preparing to guide his cock home. 

“A prince should not lie beneath a common guardsman.” Once again, the nasty glint in Guiscard’s eye betrayed his fine words. “On your back, and His Highness can seat himself on top of you. I know he is not capable of riding a warhorse, but perhaps he can manage this much.”

Emile paid the cheap insult no mind. This was what Guiscard wanted to see, what it would take to get this over with? Emile would do it. He sat up unsteadily and moved to the side, waiting for Roger to take his position. Roger gave Emile a brief look that was almost incredulous before slowly lying down on his back. His cock bobbed, flushed red and rock-hard. Emile did not want to look at it, and yet he could not look away.

He made himself crawl over to Roger, and then made himself straddle Roger’s hips in the way that Guiscard had so lewdly described. Roger glared up at him, his jaw set tightly. Emile immediately wished that he had turned the other way, so that he might look at Roger’s legs instead of his face, but there was no going back now.

Setting his hands upon Roger’s chest felt wrong – he was certain that Roger did not welcome it – but there was no other way, if Emile was to do what would come next. Roger’s chest was broad and firm, at least, and would provide a good base upon which to steady himself. Roger was a large man, built much more sturdily than Emile.

_Surely all of him will be large_. Emile gulped. 

“Well, highness?” Guiscard urged. There was a hint of impatience in his voice. 

Emile lowered his hips, just a fraction, and felt the head of Roger’s cock brush against him. His arms were still shaking, and keeping himself supported seemed to take all the effort he could muster. 

He heard Roger curse beneath him, felt a great jolt of movement, and then a sudden, pressing ache. Roger had grabbed him by the hips and thrust up into him, sheathing himself within Emile in one quick motion.

Emile had told himself from the moment the way things would play out became apparent that he would not scream, would not give Guiscard any more satisfaction than he absolutely had to. He was able to keep that vow, somehow, but he could not stop himself from letting out a loud gasp. It did not hurt so terribly, not as much as he had expected – he once again felt a lightheaded sense of appreciation that Roger had asked for oil – but it felt _strange_ , and he could feel Roger’s power in the body beneath him and the hands on his hips, and he knew that he was at the other man’s mercy now.

Roger began to move just as unforgivingly as Emile had feared, snapping his hips up and forcing Emile to grind against him. Taking it as stoically as possible was all that Emile could do and yet even this was a struggle. One particularly harsh thrust sent him tumbling forwards, scrabbling at Roger’s chest. As he tried to push himself back up his gaze fell upon Roger’s face. There was very little hint of royalty in Roger’s features now, nor any of the impassiveness that had puzzled Emile earlier. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were wild and full of hatred. At the sight of it, Emile could not keep from crying out after all.

Roger brought one arm up and clamped it around Emile, so that Emile was forced to stay pressed against his chest as Roger moved inside of him as he wished. Emile’s legs had begun to cramp uncomfortably, but he could do little to ease the pain as he was now. His lungs were burning, and he distantly feared that they might rebel against him again, but even that was hard to focus on now, with Roger’s presence overwhelming around him, inside of him.

Roger moved so that he could press his face against Emile’s hair, his lips almost brushing against the curve of Emile’s ear. Emile stiffened, flooded with the distinct dread that Roger would bite him.

Instead Roger muttered something, so low and breathless that Emile did not begin to catch the words until he said it a second time.

“…Do you remember?”

Confusion made Emile forget some of the horror of his circumstances. He struggled until he could raise his head enough to see Roger’s face once more, but found no hint at the question’s meaning there. “Remember what?” he dared ask, shakily. 

Roger gave another deep thrust, one that nudged at something sensitive inside him, and Emile had to bite his lip to keep from crying out again. Roger grunted, and Emile felt his chest shudder beneath him.

“Seven years ago.” Roger repeated the motion and Emile collapsed once more, his hair falling over his eyes. It could not protect him from Roger’s words, which dripped with poison. “I was at the palace, _Prince_. You saw me. Do you remember?” 

Emile could not open his mouth to reply. Roger gave another thrust.

“You don’t, do you? I heard that you asked about me then.” 

The memory flickered through Emile’s mind, as distant as something from a fairytale.

“You didn’t know me.” Roger’s voice grew rougher still, and he tightened his grip until his fingernails dug at Emile’s hips. A high, pained noise wrung itself out from Emile’s throat. “I was nothing, wasn’t I?”

_No!_ That was not how it had been, not at all, but Emile could say nothing to correct Roger, could do nothing except lie atop him and try to keep breathing. 

“I heard that a _servant_ had to tell you who I was,” Roger spat. “Your own blood. And I was nothing to you.” 

His hand was suddenly in Emile’s hair, pulling Emile’s head back painfully as his lord had done earlier. “Do you see me now, _brother?_ ” Roger demanded. When Emile did not reply immediately, Roger gave his hair another cruel yank, and used his other hand to grind Emile’s hips down against his own. “ _Do you see me?”_

“Y-yes!” Emile cried out, terrified. 

Roger growled in triumph, and let go of his hair once more. Emile slumped back against him, all strength gone. His breath came in hiccupping bursts, and his eyes were blurry with tears. Roger’s movements were not quite as fast or harsh now, though he continued to move so deeply into Emile with each stroke that Emile felt as if he would split in two. _He will finish soon, surely_ , he thought to himself, and felt wretchedly hopeful.

Then he felt a hand upon his back, one that did not belong to Roger.

“My lord?” he heard Roger say, and at the same time, he felt the bed shift and heard a rustle of clothing being pushed aside as Lord Guiscard moved behind him. 

“Don’t stop.” The lord’s voice sounded just as rough as Roger’s, thick with lust. His hand moved lower on Emile’s back, until Emile could feel it at the place where he and Roger were joined. The lord rubbed at him with one finger, as if to slip inside.

Emile wailed, realizing what was to come, at the same moment that Roger said “ _my lord_ ,” more sharply this time.

“Shut up,” Guiscard ordered. “I said I’d get some use out of him. And he took you easily enough – didn’t you, your Highness?”

“Please.” Emile stammered each word out without hearing them, without thinking. “Please don’t, I can’t – not you, too – “

The lord’s fingers prodded at him – _stretching_ – and then there was something else, something bigger than a finger. Bit by bit Guiscard worked until he was well buried inside Emile, his weight bearing down against Emile’s back. Guiscard groaned, as did Roger, who had paused his own movements. Emile choked on air.

“There,” Guiscard panted at last. He swatted at Emile’s ribs. “Move. Both of you, damn you.” 

Emile was beyond hearing instructions, let alone obeying, but Roger did as ordered, rolling his hips shallowly and grunting with exertion. Guiscard moved more freely, with no interest in trying to match Roger’s rhythm.

Emile panted. He felt no pain – he felt nothing at all now, except that he was too _full_. 

A hand grabbed at his cock and it sent a burst of fire through him, mingling with the unpleasant pressure that filled the lower half of his body. He heard a choked, helpless noise, and realized a second later that it had come from him. 

“Oh?” he heard Guiscard chuckle from behind him, far too close to his ear. “Very well – touch him, if you like.” 

The hand was pumping him now, at an unrelenting pace, and the heat within Emile was growing with each stroke. He wanted to do something, to push the grip away, but his hands were curled uselessly against Roger’s chest and he could not make them move. Something was building within him, and he was certain that when it grew large enough his lungs and heart would stop altogether and that would be the end of him, and –

A thumb brushed over the head of Emile’s cock, at the same time that he felt Roger thrust up beneath him. Emile came with a gasp – he could manage nothing more – spilling his seed across Roger’s belly and chest.

As his senses slowly returned, he felt Roger shudder likewise beneath him. A few seconds later, something began to drip down his thighs.

Guiscard made a choked noise of pleasure, and sped up his own thrusts. “ _That’s_ right, take it!”

Emile’s breathing had grown steadier, enough that he was able to moan. He had fallen forward against Roger’s chest once again. Roger’s skin was hot and sticky. Emile could hear his heartbeat.

He was dully aware of Roger shifting, and then, with a grunt, Roger withdrew from him. Emile’s mouth fell open, though no sound came out this time. It should have been an improvement, to have only one man’s cock inside of him – _Is this what I have been reduced to now?_ \- but instead he felt sickeningly wet and _empty_ , and still hurting where Guiscard continued to rut into him.

Guiscard’s fingers tightened about Emile’s sides, digging into the bruises that had already formed there. “I didn’t tell you to move,” he hissed at Roger.

Roger lay beneath Emile. His hands still rested on Emile’s hips, as if he had forgotten he had put them there. “I finished,” he replied. His voice was low and surprisingly steady, but his brow was furrowed as he regarded Guiscard over Emile’s shoulder, and his eyes were cold.

“I haven’t! He’s loose as an old streetwalker now.” Guiscard spat out a curse – Emile could not tell whether it was meant for Roger or him – and a moment later, there was a sharp _thwak_ as one of Guiscard’s hands came down heavily. Emile keened and jerked forward, his head knocking against Roger’s jaw.

A few more thrusts, and Guiscard was pulling out of him as well. A rhythmic, sloppy noise mingled with the older man’s harsh breaths, and then, a second later, Emile felt warm liquid spatter low over his back.

Roger drew away from Emile, letting him fall into the blankets and furs of the bed. They were just as thick and warm as Emile had imagined they would be when he had first laid eyes on the room. _These will have to be cleaned now_ , he thought, ridiculously. His mind felt scattered and fuzzy. The only notion he could catch hold of firmly was that, for once, no one was touching him or demanding anything of him any more. 

“Clean yourself up,” Guiscard was saying to Roger. The lord sounded irritated, but it did not trouble Emile very much, not now. “And get him out of here. He’s a mess.” 

_It is not my fault_ , Emile thought, dazedly offended, but that did not matter very much either.

The almost comfortable haze enveloping him evaporated abruptly when he was grabbed by the arm and pulled until he was sitting up. It was Roger. He was still red-faced and sweaty, and his clothing had been put on with some haste. “Here.” He tossed something at Emile, which Emile realized after a second was his long-discarded shirt. “Put it on!” Roger snapped at him.

Emile tried. His limbs felt very heavy, and the entire process seemed to be much more difficult than it should. After a little while Roger lost patience and stepped in to help him, yanking his arms into the sleeves so roughly that Emile heard the seams rip.

“Boy.” Guiscard was beside them suddenly, looking as disheveled as Roger. Emile started away from him, twisting the shirt and making Roger curse. “Have you learned your lesson?” Guiscard asked, voice hoarse. 

Emile did not have the slightest notion what the lesson was, but he nodded quickly all the same. 

“Do not think that anyone here will help you,” Guiscard warned. “Even if you _do_ dare tell them how you yelped like a bitch in heat with two cocks inside of you.”

His words meant nothing. Emile would agree with anything he said, if it meant that this nightmare would end.   

“You will show respect to me while you are in my home, and do what I tell you. You will send only praise for me to the king. I will use you like this again, if I want to.”

Emile felt dizzy from nodding. He bit at the inside of his cheek, but it did little good. 

Guiscard regarded him in silence for a few seconds. Then: “I said, get him out of here,” he told Roger. 

Emile had not thought that he would be able to stand, let alone walk, but somehow, with Roger’s arm around his back, he found himself making his way out of the room. The journey back to his own chambers passed in brief, painful flashes of awareness. 

Once they arrived, Roger cast him down on his own bed in much the same way that he had when – there was no need to think back on it, not now. 

Emile expected Roger to leave, but instead the guard stayed standing by the bed, looking down at him. Emile waited uneasily for whatever might be next. He still wore only his shirt, though it was long enough to provide some tiny degree of modesty.  

“Your Hi-“ Roger started to say at last, before cutting himself off, as if reconsidering. “Emile,” he said instead. _That_ was so unexpected that Emile’s confusion must have showed on his face, despite the stupor that had fallen over him. Roger scowled. “ _Idiot_ ,” he hissed finally. “Get up. Take that shirt off.”

It did not make a lot of sense, but Emile did his best to do as he was told. The shirt came off easier than it had gone on, at least. Roger took it from him, ripped a large strip of it off, and shoved the ripped piece irritably back to Emile. “You’re bleeding.”

Emile swiped it obediently between his legs. It hurt, and the cloth was too dry to properly clean anything, but Emile did not dare complain. He did not dare look at the cloth, either, though he told himself that it was surely not so bad. If he was truly injured, he would have passed out by now, and yet here he was, unpleasantly awake in his room with Roger.

When Emile finished, Roger grabbed at him suddenly and flipped him onto his belly. Emile yelped, and found that he still had enough strength to try and struggle after all, but all Roger did was wipe the cloth across his back, muttering foul-sounding things under his breath the entire time. Finally, Roger tossed the dirty rag aside. He looked Emile up and down, as if he was on the verge of saying something, and then turned away, shaking his head in irritation. Emile fell gratefully back upon his bed, and climbed under the covers.

 

He opened his eyes some time later, and immediately regretted it. His body ached in unspeakable ways, and his head throbbed. Worst of all, his mind was clearer now, every event of the last several hours present in horrible detail within his memory. His stomach lurched, so that he had to clamp his hand over his mouth for several seconds.

He was in his own room still, and it was night, though it was impossible to guess the hour. He was able to sit up at last, and swing his legs carefully over the side of his bed. The rag torn from his shirt had not done the job at all – he still felt filthy, disgusting. He could not think what he might do about that now, but at least he could try finding something else to wear, something to cover him a little more… 

“What are you doing?” a voice demanded. Emile started, his legs so unsteady that he nearly fell back onto the bed. Roger emerged from the shadows near the entrance of the room, eyeing Emile suspiciously.

_Is he to keep a leash on me for Guiscard’s sake now?_ Emile thought with a shudder.

Another memory flickered vaguely through his thoughts, of Roger cleaning his lord’s seed from Emile’s back. 

“I – I wanted to clean myself more,” he managed to say. His voice was little more than a croak, though he kept it steady enough. “Or get some clothes.”

Roger regarded him closely for a moment – Emile felt himself being evaluated – and then Roger sighed, as if Emile had demanded something especially troublesome. 

“Wait here,” he snapped. Before Emile could reply, he had gone, and Emile could hear his steps fading away in the hall outside.

He did not understand it at all, and was more than a little afraid that he had somehow done something that would bring abuse upon himself yet again. But Emile was also still afraid of displeasing Roger, and so he waited.

  

Emile had not intended to fall asleep, but the next thing he knew he was on the bed again, with Roger shaking him by the shoulder. “Wake up.” 

When he scrambled up – doing his best to ignore the ache that came with it – he saw that it was still night, perhaps only a little later than it had been the last time he had been awake. Roger had returned, and there was a large object on the floor that had not been there earlier.

“You wanted a bath?” Roger said impatiently, as Emile blinked at it. “Here.”

“I…” Emile had _not_ said that he wanted such a thing, he did not want to bathe with Roger standing over him, and yet… Roger seemed to want him to do this, though Emile could not fathom the reason. And at least he would be clean.

Shifting himself from the bed, he saw that the thing on the floor was a metal tub large enough to sit in, and filled with water. Emile had not often made use of such a thing even in the palace – he had not at been counting on seeing it here. The water was warm, as well. Had Roger roused the castle’s servants to prepare such a thing, to carry it to Emile’s room?

Had the servants noticed that something was amiss, or perhaps even realized what had happened to Emile? Emile shivered, the night air suddenly feeling especially cold on his still-naked body. He stepped quickly into the tub before he could think any further.

The bath felt good, even though it did little to ease his mistreated body. Emile sunk into it as deeply as possible, until the water lapped at his chin and his hair had begun to float around him. He wished that he might slip beneath entirely.

Roger was still standing there, watching. Emile could feel his gaze pricking at his skin, even with his back turned to him. He waited. 

“You’re quiet,” Roger remarked, out of nowhere.

Emile would not have been able to begin to know how to reply to that even if he had wanted to.

_It is Roger who is speaking to me more now._ It was hard to imagine that the man Emile had struggled to engage in awkward, one-sided conversation earlier that very day and the one who had pushed and growled at him all the way back from Guiscard’s room were the same person.

_What does he want?_ Roger’s behavior might almost be called caring, now. And yet he had made his feelings towards Emile more than clear. The dark bruises blooming across Emile’s hips were proof enough of that. 

The memory of Roger’s face twisted in cruel anger floated unbidden through his mind. Emile curled up until he could sink his own face beneath the water.

When he resurfaced, he found that Roger had drawn closer still, and crouched on his knees beside the tub. Emile drew on every ounce of self-control he still possessed, and did not try to lean away from him.

Roger reached out and scooped one hand into the water beside him. He let the water fall down over Emile’s shoulders, and then let his own hand rest there. There was none of the roughness with which Roger had hauled him about earlier in the night. It did not make Emile feel any better.

Roger ran his fingers across the span of Emile’s shoulders in the same almost careful manner, making Emile’s skin tingle. He squeezed his hands into fists beneath the water, but did not move.

“Thin, aren’t you?” Roger observed, as if they were having a conversation. “I had thought that a prince would have plenty to eat.” 

In an impossibly different version of this conversation, Emile might have explained that food shortages had hit the capital just as heavily as everywhere else, that the king was not the sort of ruler who permitted even his family to live extravagantly while his subjects starved, that besides, Emile had been slight and sickly since birth, though he had done his best to overcome it… Now, he did no more than nod, very slightly. 

Roger brushed Emile’s hair to the side in one easy motion, and let another handful of water fall over Emile’s exposed neck and shoulders, still moving with an odd, almost thoughtful, deliberateness. Emile could not keep himself from cringing at that – the feeling of his hair being touched brought unpleasant memories suddenly to the forefront of his thoughts – though if Roger noticed this, he did not remark on it.

_This is to be my life now_ , Emile thought miserably. He did not believe for a moment that any of Guiscard’s people would dare defy their lord on Emile’s behalf, and seeking help from anyone outside the castle – let alone from the palace – would not happen nearly fast enough. And Emile had no hope at all of somehow overpowering Guiscard himself, especially not when Roger stood at the lord’s side.

“Is the entrance to the palace still lined with trees? What does it look like in the winter?”

“I…” Emile fumbled for an answer. Why was Roger so interested in discussing such things, and _now_ , of all times?

He suddenly heard Guiscard’s mocking words echo in his mind: _You think he doesn’t think about what he could have had?_

An idea began to take form gradually, like a painting that seemed indistinct at first but became clearer when viewed at a distance.

Emile looked over his shoulder and met Roger’s eyes for the first time. Roger stared back at him. Only a little while earlier, Roger had said awful things to Emile, had hurt him and let him be hurt so that Emile did not know when he would ever be fully healed from it. And yet he waited at Emile’s side now, hanging onto his words. 

Once more, Emile steeled himself and willed his voice to be calm and steady.

“Would you like to see it someday, Roger?” he asked. 

Roger seemed to lean forward ever so slightly, and his blue eyes widened.

 

It was somewhat later by the time that Emile and Roger left his room, and though the halls of the castle were still dark and empty, Emile knew that it could not be much longer before the sun would begin to rise. The thought made his pulse race all the quicker. They had little time to spare. It would be far better if they could finish the task that lay ahead before any servants could see or interfere.

The door to Guiscard’s chamber was not locked or guarded – unsurprising, perhaps, for a lord of a small and remote holding, who imagined that he had just thoroughly bested the only person who might trouble him. Emile entered quietly, Roger behind him, and Guiscard did not awaken until they stood beside his bed.

“Lord Guiscard,” Emile said. He was bone-tired, and it was difficult to keep from glancing about, noting the spot on the floor where Guiscard had forced him to his knees, his clothing still lying crumpled in the shadows beside the bed. He forced himself to keep going. _Just a little more._ “You have committed unforgivable acts against the throne, and so against the safety and prosperity of all the kingdom.” 

Guiscard gaped at him, half-asleep and absolutely confused. It would have been a lie to say that the sight did not bring Emile a small amount of vindictive joy, even knowing the grim task that lay ahead. Guiscard had surely not expected Emile to face him anytime soon, and Emile, clean and dressed in a new shirt and trousers thick enough to hide his bruises, had done his best to project an air of royal authority that even his father would not have been able to find fault with.

Guiscard’s eyes fell upon Roger, and the familiar sight seemed to rouse him somewhat. “What – what is this?” he demanded. “Why did you let him in here? Out, now!” 

Roger did not move. Even without looking at him, Emile could picture the impassive expression that was surely on his face quite clearly.

“For such traitorous deeds –“ Emile cleared his throat, as Guiscard continued to squawk at Roger. “The penalty is death. To be carried out immediately.”   It was perhaps not quite up to the standards of such proclamations that Emile had witnessed at court, but he thought that it would do.

“Is this a _joke?”_ Guiscard was incensed, his face so red that it was clearly apparent even in the dark room. He had not tried to get out of bed and take Emile on directly though, and Emile noted this with a certain amount of bitter pleasure as well. “You aren’t going to kill me, you little fool.”

Emile inclined his head slightly, and Roger took a step forward.

“ _Him?”_ Guiscard’s words were still indignant, but the color in his face had begun to drain away. “He doesn’t answer to you, wasn’t that clear enough already?”

“He does,” Emile could not keep from retorting, his voice tight, even though he knew that there was no benefit to arguing now. “Because I can give him what he wants, and you can’t.”

Guiscard stared at Emile in disbelief for a second. Then he let out a roar of scornful laughter, though his face was still sickly pale. “So you _did_ like it! You – you’d whore yourself to your brother?” The lord cast a panicky look in Roger’s direction. “Enough of this, Roger.”

Emile did not bother to correct him. For just a second, though, he thought of telling Guiscard the true reason why Emile had ventured north, what he had not yet been ready to share before. How the king had ordered Emile to stay a while in Guiscard’s home and gain some idea of his character and loyalty, to see whether Guiscard might be worthy of being summoned south and entrusted with a distinguished role in the conflict raging there. It would please the new, bitter part of Emile indeed, to let the lord know how tantalizingly close the recognition he had so longed for had been. But now was not the moment for such indulgences. Guiscard would have had little time to contemplate the gravity of his error, in any case. 

When Roger advanced enough for Guiscard to see the sword he held in his hand, the lord’s face twisted further, and he pressed himself against the headboard of his bed as if pushed there by an invisible hand. “Roger! This - this is how you would repay me, after all that I’ve done for you? When your father and _him_ -“ he thrust a finger in Emile’s direction; it was shaking violently. “- Turned their backs on you?” ” His voice grew more raw and hateful by the second, until it hardly seemed human. “A traitor and a deviant, ensnared by this – this succubus calling itself a man, a _prince_! May the devil –!“ 

He said no more after that.

For what felt like some time afterwards, Emile could only stand there, transfixed by the gory sight. He thought, suddenly: _There will be no cleaning those blankets now._ It made him laugh, for just a moment, and the wrongness of that snapped him back to his senses at last.

Roger stood by the bed a little ways away, his shoulders hunched and his golden hair falling into his face. When he straightened and turned towards Emile, Emile saw that his clothing and even his face were spattered with blood. 

Roger suddenly closed the space between the two of them in a few quick strides, and caught Emile’s arm with the hand that did not still clasp his bloody sword. His eyes were alight with the same fire that had been there when he had spat _Do you see me?_

“Your Highness,” Roger said, his voice low and rough. He was breathing hard, and they stood so close now that Emile could feel his chest rise and fall against Emile’s own.

Emile stared up at him, his heart pounding in his own chest. He felt as if he had climbed to the peak of a mountain, and did not know whether he might ever come back down, or even whether or not he might topple down and dash himself on the rocks below.

He was able to tug his arm out of Roger’s grasp, just barely. “Let the others know that their lord is dead, and that I have given you command of the castle for now.”

Roger had not moved away from him, nor had he softened his gaze. “But I will not be staying here, will I, Your Highness?” 

Emile shook his head. “It will be as we discussed,” he said.

Roger hesitated. For a moment Emile was sure that he was finished, that Roger had seen that Emile had absolutely no intention of helping Roger gain their father’s recognition or of traveling with him even one step south, no matter what he had promised Roger back in his room.

At last, however, Roger took a merciful step back. “Good.” He glanced down at his bloody clothing for the first time, and grimaced. “I’ll change my clothes first,” he informed Emile. “I’ll be quick. It will be dawn soon.” He turned quickly, and headed in the direction of one of the smaller rooms leading off of the chamber – Emile understood that he meant to rummage through his late lord’s wardrobe.

_This is who you have bet your survival upon_ , Emile thought to himself with numb resignation. And then: _This is your brother, whom you so longed to know._

Well, they would come to know each other now indeed, in however much time it took before Emile could figure out what to do with Roger. Emile had misjudged Roger before tonight, but he did not think that Roger fully understood him yet, either. Despite it all, Emile was still a prince, and a prince did not forgive anyone who would misuse him. Their father had made sure to teach him that. Roger had not had the benefit of such lessons, but he might come to understand, in time.

 


End file.
